


Steve Rogers vs. the Midnight Psychic Carpet Emporium

by LadyAngelique, yamyamyam



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Necromancy, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bottom Steve, Customer Service, Embedded Images, Ghost Bucky Barnes, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Psychic Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve, Spoopy stucky, Top Bucky, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAngelique/pseuds/LadyAngelique, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamyamyam/pseuds/yamyamyam
Summary: Sometimes solving a murder requires asking the victim what happened. That's where medium Steve Rogers comes in, helping SHIELD agent Natasha Romanoff solve crimes and helping himself pay the bills.They've tangled with HYDRA in the past, but their latest scheme is creepier than usual: mutilated victims, necromancy, and one very dead, very badass Winter Soldier, bound by chains to do their bidding.Steve doesn't like seeing people in chains. He's going to rescue this poor soul no matter what it takes. And maybe smooch the heck out of him. (Okay definitely smooch the heck out of him.) With a little help from his mother's star pendant, his sort-of-friend asshole oneiromancer Stephen Strange, and SHIELD's finest... archer? okay, archer, sure—what could go wrong?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 47
Kudos: 303
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter One: The Customer Ain't Always Right

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: It looks like there is major character death at one point, but don't panic, peeps, I got you for a happy ending.
> 
> =====
> 
> Part of the Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2019!
> 
> Words: yamyamyam  
> Art: LadyAngelique  
> Beta: flightyrock
> 
> It was such a pleasure getting to write for this gorgeous art piece! Huge thanks to my talented artist & amazing cheerleader LadyAngelique, to the mods for doing their thing, and to my beta flightyrock who arrested dozens of rogue intos. XD Hope y'all enjoy the finished product! <3 -yamyamyam

[](https://imgur.com/AmTEE6G)

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose wearily and tries again. "Ma'am, I'm afraid what you're looking for is just not possible." 

"I thought you were a medium! How can you say that it's not possible to contact my dear departed Arthur? This is literally your entire business!"

Well, it sure feels that way sometimes. Steve opens his eyes again and sits up to his full height—not that that's very impressive, but it makes his mother's star gem pendant fall forward and clank dramatically on his second-hand oak desk. His star gem pendant, now, he supposes. "Ma'am. Do you understand what a medium does?" he asks, impatience and irritation frosting over his voice.

She snorts. "Do _you?_ A medium speaks to ghosts. Which is exactly what I'm—"

"That's correct. I speak to ghosts. And I listen to ghosts. And I relay their communications to the living, who cannot hear or see them."

She pushes her glasses up her nose, fuming. "Then why are you refusing—so rudely!—to accept my—"

Steve is just done. He stands up and picks up her purse from the desk between them, dumping it on her lap roughly. "BECAUSE. I. DON'T. SPEAK. DOG."

She is clutching the purse to her chest and standing up angrily right along with him, towering over him by half a head at 5'6" plus a pair of heels that probably cost more than his office's monthly rent. "I am going to report you to the Better Business Bureau! You're a fraud!"

Steve holds open the office door, waving her through pointedly. "By all means! Don't forget a Yelp review! Tell your friends on Facebook not to call me! I WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE THAT!"

She storms out, and Steve slams the door, flips the lock, and leans back against it, sweating in the sudden silence, breathing heavily and debating whether to get out his inhaler or not, finally fishing it out of his jacket pocket on the coat rack when he decides albuterol is cheaper than a trip to urgent care. Or the emergency room. Again. _Sigh._ He blows out his held breath heavily and takes a second puff, letting the faint gin and tonic aftertaste settle in his sinuses. This is the eighth veterinary request this month. None of them ever lead to paying jobs, and most of the would-be clients have enough pet dander on their person to trigger an asthma attack even before they start trying to convince him to get in touch with Fluffy or Fido or Hubert the goldfish or whatever. What are they even planning to say? He's never gotten that far in the conversation. Do they need to clarify the provisions of Spot's last will and testament? Find out whether Mr. Muffin really liked the venison gooshy food or was just being polite? Get some financial advice from the dead hamster?

Steve's possibly getting a bit punchy. The puffer always makes his heart race a bit. He should sit down.

He pulls his jacket around his shoulders and sits down glumly. He's just pulling out his phone to check the weather app when it rings. Unlisted number. Well, it's either another spam call telling him he's won a free cruise, or it's—

"Steve, it's Natasha. I have a job for you."

"Oh, thank god."

=====

Steve had met Natasha on another winter day, years ago now. Steve had still been living in his mother's apartment, and after another day of sorting through her worldly possessions and feeling more and more lost, he'd looped her star gem necklace around his neck and slipped out for a walk in the cold to clear his head. It felt strange to wear it, but it felt more wrong to leave it behind. Sarah had worn it sleeping and waking as far back as Steve can remember, taking it off only to bathe. And at the hospital towards the end. "Too many souls on their own errands here," she'd explained, tucking it into his hands one afternoon, not long before she slipped out of consciousness for good and he began his long vigil in the ICU.

He hadn't tried it on then; nor after she passed, though he was tempted, so tempted, in the lost days after she had left. He knew it was pointless, though, even if he had had any of his mother's spiritual power. He'd dutifully followed her instructions and rubbed her temples and wrists with salt and charcoal, and had one of her coven sisters say the words of binding that would seal her spirit safely to its rest. There was always someone who didn't want the dead to find peace, preferring to channel their restless power to their own ends; and not all of those someones were alive. A medium who did the work of peace—as Sarah always had—made enemies, could not avoid making enemies, and only the binding ritual could ensure that no one would be able to find and co-opt her and her power when her time came. It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do.

But it was a lonely thing to do. The solace, the comfort that Sarah had brought to the bereaved in her life of work was something Steve could never have now. She was lost to him forever, beyond his reach, beyond anyone's reach. 

What made that day different from the day before he couldn't have said, but he slipped the gem on almost without thinking, tucking it under his windbreaker as he stepped outside. He found himself in a subway station, idly scanning his farecard at the turnstile and walking to a platform, any platform, going nowhere in particular. It was a Sunday and the place was almost empty, occupied only by one old man in a rumpled trenchcoat muttering to himself on a bench, and a stern-looking redheaded woman in a black pea coat, lost in thought. 

He was about to look away from her when his heart lurched suddenly. Or did it? There it went agai—no, not his heart. The pendant. The star gem pendant was jumping under his jacket, frantically jerking on its chain. Alarmed, Steve unzipped his jacket, pawing at his chest to get it away from him. Released from the fabric, the pendant stopped its erratic dance and instead rose smoothly into the air, floating horizontally in front of his face, still loosely tethered to his neck. Steve froze. He'd seen this before, of course. It would float when his mother was deep in a trance, float and then start to—and here it was, it was starting to spin before his eyes, the star and the silver and red rings dancing around each other, describing a blurry sphere. But he wasn't in a trance, he wasn't a spirit worker, hell, he couldn't even use a ouija board, nevermind anything this intense and strange. Steve had never once exhibited any hint of power. The Ryan-Tierney family line had ended with Sarah, with no niece or nephew, no distant cousin to train up in the power. She had kissed his brow after the last test, on his twelfth birthday, and whispered that it was no matter; he was her own sweet boy and if the spirit voices passed him by, then God had other work for him to do, that's all. Her star gem had always been just a rock in his hands, silent and lifeless. He'd made his peace with that long ago.

But it was moving now. Panicked, Steve wrenched his gaze up, afraid to be caught out. Spirit workers were rare in this day and age, and the few that still practiced were overwhelmingly female. He'd heard of men getting beat up for nothing more than using the tarot, never mind channelling the dead, some ridiculous variation of trans panic or gender role bullshit. Steve was queer and proud, but he was also small and alone. He glanced quickly over at the muttering man—still engrossed in his soliloquy, not looking his way, good—then to the solemn redhead. She hadn't noticed anything and was still looking off at nothing in particular, but now Steve couldn't look away, because she wasn't alone anymore. She was surrounded by dark figures clustered around her, whispering urgently, though she didn't appear to have noticed. He tried to count them and failed; they seemed to flow into each other, blurring when he focused too long on any one of them.

Steve took a stiff step forward, then another, his legs carrying him toward the woman without his input or consent, until he stood before her, pendant spinning lazily in front of him. She looked up, finally, and frowned, taking in the floating star gem. "What..."

"Hydra," Steve blurted out. He had no idea what this signifies, but the dark figures—the spirits, because that's what they are, what they could only be—were whispering the word to her over and over.

She stepped back, hand slipping under the coat to rest on something. A gun? Shit, shit, shit, what was Steve _doing?_

"What do you know about Hydra," she had croaked out. It wasn't really a question, in that tone of voice; more a warning.

Steve stepped back, putting his hands out placatingly, trying to look as small and harmless as possible, which isn't hard when you're Steve's size. "I don't... I don't know anything. It's what... I can hear them trying to tell you."

"Trying to tell me..." she trailed off, frowning down at the gem, its spinning gradually picking up speed. "You're a medium."

"No, I..." Steve paused. "I'm not..." He looked back down at the pendant. He isn't. Is he? "I guess I... I guess I am?"

"You guess?" She cocked an eyebrow.

Steve reddened. "It's complicated."

She smirked. "I'll bet." The smile dropped. "Hydra. Who is trying to tell me about Hydra."

Steve swallowed and looked up. "I don't know who. I can't see their faces. I'm... I'm not sure they have faces? But they're saying..." he closed his eyes, trying to make out what the shadows are saying, nodding slowly as the hissing whispers smooth out in to words as he concentrates on them. "The Lincoln memorial. Hydra at the Lincoln memorial, tonight." 

Her eyes grew wide. "The Lincoln... what is Hydra doing at the Lincoln memorial tonight?"

He hunched in on himself. "Are they like, a band? Maybe? Is there a concert?"

She narrowed her eyes, scanning his face skeptically. "You really have no idea, do you."

"No?"

"Hmm." 

Steve felt a bit like an insect pinned to a card under her gaze. Abruptly, the pendant stopped spinning, dropping heavily on his jacket, its business apparently concluded. 

Steve looked at it. 

The woman looked at it. 

Steve poked it gingerly. 

She stifled a smile, then took the hand that was resting warningly on her gun and reached across under her shoulder. Oh god, is there another gun there? Something worse? Steve cringed, flashing to late-night reruns of detective shows, guys with leather shoulder holsters strutting around and generally looking manly and shooty and—but it's not a shoulder holster. She pulled a business card case out of an inner pocket, took out a crisp white card and folded his hand around it. "Natasha Romanoff. SHIELD. Call me if you hear them tell you anything else. Now give me your phone." 

Trembling, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it out to her. She looked at the lock screen and rolled her eyes. "Right! Right, sorry." He unlocked it hurriedly and handed it back. Shit, what was he doing? By day he's Captain Petition, champion of YouTube videos about civil rights, but put him in front of a government agent and he just hands over his—but she wasn't looking for anything. She had pulled up a new message and texted herself, then handed the phone back. 

"And I'll be calling you later, Mr. Complicated Medium."

"Uh. Okay!" he squeaked. 

"Don't leave town."

"Right! Right. I'll uh... I'll just..." Steve gestured vaguely at the exit like he's a grade-schooler asking permission to go to the bathroom.

She looked at him suspiciously, then shook her head, pulled out a phone of her own and stalked off without another word. 

Steve blinked a few times, then shoved the star gem under his shirt and turned about, speed-walking out of the station and back home.

=====

Natasha had indeed called again, three weeks later, and ordered him to report to a coffee shop nearby. He went, a bundle of nerves but more nervous about what would happen if he didn't. But instead of a grilling or a dressing down as he halfway expected, she had... a bank draft for two thousand dollars.

"What? What's this?"

Natasha looked evenly at him and said "The reward."

"Re-re... reward? For what?"

"For your tip. Hydra showed that night. It broke the case I've been stuck on for six months. I can't tell you much, but it was... a serious matter." She looked up to meet his eyes. "Thank you. I mean that."

Steve was still working on "Hydra showed up." It was real? It was... of course it was real, the pendant was _floating_ , it just... it just...

Natasha waggled the envelope in front of him and he snapped out of it. "Uh, right! Right. Uh. You're welcome? And thanks?" He opened the envelope and sort of patted the bank draft in disbelief. "Thanks a lot. _Really_ a lot," he amended, blinking dopily at the amount.

It was the start of many things. Of his new career, for one. He had gotten home, taken the pendant out of the freezer where he'd hidden it in panic after coming home from the subway station, looked at it thoughtfully, then called the woman from his mother's coven who had done her binding rites. She called him in to their next meeting, they re-tested him, and a few days later he was issued a provisional license to practice, subject to a three month preceptorship. He studied diligently, combing through his mother's old texts and finding that it came naturally, easily, the power flowing through him like it belonged there. Why it did now, when he couldn't so much as summon a faerie light when his mother had tested him... well, he could almost hear her voice, saying, "Life is full of questions, Steven, but God is tight-fisted with answers." Regardless, it was happening now, and if the money a cranky, male medium-for-hire pulled in wasn't much, it was still better than his prospects had looked with half an art school degree, no marketable skills, and a pile of student loans and second-hand medical debt.

And it was the start of a professional relationship with Natasha that blossomed into friendship; every few months she'd call him up, and he'd come comb over cold case files with her. And as often as not, he would find a key witness who could tie things up if only they weren't dead... and then ask them.

Because Steve Rogers was a medium, full stop, no "I guess?" about it any more. He had surpassed his mother's abilities after six scant months of practice, and now corresponded with spirit scholars in Dublin for advanced training. Dead witness? No problem. Steve could make them talk.

Well. Steve could sit still and listen, more like. Not everyone's spirit stayed close to the living realms; but the kind of people caught up in one of Natasha's cases almost always did. And good or bad, once they were dead? They were CHATTY. They resented. They fumed. They complained. And Steve was there to listen, chin in hand, taking notes on their grievances. It felt good, helping the dead find peace while helping the living solve crimes. There wasn't always a hefty reward like that first case, but there was usually something, an honorarium, or at least a nice dinner courtesy of Nat's expense account. 

The SHIELD cases didn't pay the rent; he mostly did civilian work. A surprising number of probate cases could be simplified with a medium to get word of the actual last wishes of the deceased. A lot of it was feel-good stuff. Couples whose last words together had been a fight getting to reassure each other they were loved. Parents getting to find out that their children were being taken care of. But a lot of it was... not so much. Spirits who stuck around trying to resolve something could be, well, really petty. It took a very diplomatic approach, since Steve wasn't going to get paid if the living party stormed out of his office in a huff after hearing the frank comments of a cranky ghost. Usually he was pretty good at it, though.

As long as it wasn't people looking for a pet psychic. _Sigh._ He really, really hoped Nat had something good for him this time.


	2. Chapter Two: Creepiness Intensifies

Good was a strong word for what she had, but it was certainly intriguing.

"So this is." She stops, frowning at a stack of papers threatening to overflow their folder on her desk. "WINTER SOLDIER" is typewritten on the folder's name tab, with an actual typewriter like it's 1962 all up in here. "It seems that we have a poltergeist."

Steve's eyebrows pop up. "A poltergeist?"

"I know, it sounds... well. This was a very, very cold case. A series of two dozen murders stretching back over fifty years. I say a series, but honestly, most people don't think they're connected. The file has been more a dumping bin for unsolved murders."

"You must have way more than two dozen unsolved murders though, right?" Steve's not actually sure what kind of jurisdiction SHIELD has, so maybe they don't, but...

"We do. There is one thing tying these incidents together, though. The M.O. Only it's impossible." Natasha laughs a bit hysterically. "The killer always enters a locked or sealed room. And it stays locked or sealed, from the inside half the time, while the person inside, completely alone, is brutally murdered."

"And it's not... suicide? Suicides? Copycats?" Steve is kind of going out on a CSI limb here; he's had no formal criminology training, so TV cop shows are an embarrassingly large part of his investigative mojo outside of what he's picked up from Natasha. But he's kind of hoping he's right. A suicide would give him someone to talk to. The spirits of suicide victims almost universally hang around afterwards, sometimes for years. Poltergeists? If they exist, they're not known to chat. 

"No. Definitely not. The ballistics are... extreme." She flicks the folder open and nudges forward a pair of photos that are—

"Wow, that is a LOT of blood."

"Yup."

"Like, even for you."

Natasha looks at him flatly. "Are you done yet."

Steve smothers a grin. "Sorry! Sorry." He composes himself. He's a professional. "So you said they stretch over fifty years? Why is it on your desk now?"

"Two weeks ago, the head of Ghoul Containment at the CDC in Atlanta was shot. Inside a BSL 3 High Containment Lab, without breaching the seals. A week before that, his deputy director was shot, at home, inside a locked panic room."

Steve blanches. 

"Someone is setting the scene for a major ghoul incursion on American soil." Natasha looks up, meeting his eyes. "That says Hydra to me."

Steve nods grimly. "So what's the game plan? If it's a poltergeist... they move things. They don't talk. I'm not gonna be able to quiz the killer here even if they are dead."

"Also I don't want you to be brutally murdered," Natasha says gently. "Bad for morale."

"Yeah I... I'm down with your priorities there." Jesus.

"I'm thinking we ask the dead scientists what they saw. If I were them, I'd have some feelings about this, no?"

"Let's get started."

=====

Theoretically, Steve could call a spirit from anywhere in the world, but in practice it was a lot easier to find the one you were looking for close to where its final moments of life had been, or failing that, somewhere very familiar to the person. Trauma and habit were both powerful forces; a peripatetic soul would settle in to the groove of one or the other fairly easily unless it was incredibly strong-willed or being controlled in some way.

Steve was grateful for this when they arrived at the CDC compound in Atlanta and he was able to set up shop in the director's office, rather than having to suit up for the actual murder scene in the high containment lab. The bureaucrat assigned to them as liaison seemed relieved as well. 

"You have no idea how much paperwork it's been, coordinating a murder investigation inside a facility that handles Ebola," he gripes as he carries an extra folding chair in to the office.

Natasha raises a single eyebrow eloquently.

"Um, I mean, not that that's important compared to the death of Director Standish! We're all still in shock."

Natasha stares at him blankly. 

"I'll uh... be out in the hallway if you need anything. Just... just knock on the door and I'll be right there." he manages, backing out of the office and closing the door behind him.

Steve giggles. "You're terrible."

"What? I didn't say anything."

"Oh I know. That makes it so much worse."

Natasha cracks and let a small smile slip through. "I have a depressing job. I have to take my fun where I can." Her expression sobers. "Is this really close enough?"

Steve nods. "He probably spent a hundred times more time in here than in that lab. Even if he's haunting the lab, he'll snap right back here if someone calls." He sits down in the Director's big plush chair and slips the pendant out from under his shirt. Steve closes his eyes, breathes in, out, and pictures the Director sitting here, drinking coffee, reviewing reports. Alvin Standish. Alvin Standish, there's work to do. Director Standish—

And just like that the spirit is there. The pendant has risen to neck height, spinning slowly in front of Steve. He opens his eyes, his vision slightly glazed over as he takes in the living world and the spirit world layered over it. The spirit is there, dressed in business casual and a blood-soaked lab jacket, a respirator dangling off his back. The spirit is there, but... 

"Director?"

The spirit clearly sees him, directing a scared look at Steve, eyes pinning him with an intense, urgent look.

"Director, can you tell me about who you saw in the lab?"

The spirit trembles, but says nothing.

"Something's wrong."

Natasha sits up straighter, looking sharply over at Steve. Usually he's deep in a conversation she can only hear half of by this point. "Wrong?"

"He's not talking."

"What, he's feeling shy?"

"No, he..." Steve frowns and looks at the Director's face more closely, looking away from those intense eyes with difficulty. "His mouth is... gone."

"From his injuries? I thought that didn't affect them."

"It doesn't. Or it shouldn't. But no, not from the gunshots. He's just... it's blank. His mouth is like a void. There's nothing there."

"Creepy."

Steve holds a finger up and moves it back and forth. The spirit's eyes track the motion, then return to Steve's eyes, eyebrows hunching together, plainly stressed. "Can you make gestures?" Steve gets out a notebook, writes YES on one page, NO on the facing page, then holds it up. "Can you point?"

The staring intensifies, but the spirit makes no movement. 

"Okay can you... can you look to the side you want?"

The spirit... vibrates, the trembling from earlier dialed up to outright shaking, expression looking more and more alarmed. It looks very slightly over to Steve's left, when the shaking turns violent, and in one sudden blurred motion, he disappears. The star gem pendant drops, and Steve slumps back, shocked.

"What just happened?"

"He's gone. He vanished."

"Can you call him back?"

Steve looks doubtful. "I can try, but..." He clears his mind, closes his eyes, and calls again. Alvin. Alvin Standish. This should be trivial; after meeting the spirit Steve can picture his essence so clearly that it should be the work of a second to summon him back. But nothing happens.

Or no, not quite nothing. He feels... hollow.

"Something is seriously wrong here. He's being, like, _suppressed_ somehow."

Natasha looks grim. "That's not good."

"That's... no."

Four hours later they're in Alpharetta, thumping down the stairwell of a tastefully decorated 3-bedroom house in a cul-de-sac of nearly identical houses, and squeezing in to the former deputy director's panic room. It's clearly an aftermarket modification to the bland cookie-cutter home design; Steve doubts that "steel reinforced wall panic room" was on the list of upgrades next to granite countertops and ceiling fans. It's impressively solid. The walls are diamond-tread steel plate, and the door looks like it belongs on a Russian freighter, thick and heavy and metal with a raised threshold and severe interlocking bolts. There's a gun rack on the wall, now empty, and a desk with a couple of CRT monitors. One has a cracked screen, glass spiderwebbing from what might be a bullet hole. 

"Sorry, no chair this time. It was kind of... soiled. Forensics still has it."

Steve shivers. "It's okay, I have a feeling we're not going to be long here either," he says glumly. He centres himself, closes his eyes, fingers running over the star gem. Joanna Chow, Joanna Chow, Deputy Director J—

The pendant floats up, spinning briskly, and Steves blinks his eyes open as the spirit of Joanna Chow appears promptly, smartly dressed in a pantsuit and holding a spectral pistol. She looks around the room quickly, then finds Steve's eyes and fixes him with a glare just as intense as Standish's had been. Hers seems angrier, somehow, but still frightened. Remembering his task, Steve looks down, and, ew, yup, no mouth here either. He sighs. "Can you speak? Can you gesture?" He sketches out a wave with one hand. But as expected, her hands don't move, and her stare gets more intense until with a sudden shaking distortion of her form she vanishes. Steve sighs as his pendant drops.

"No luck?"

"No, same thing, only faster. No mouth, and disappeared as soon as I asked her to try a gesture." Steve frowns. "She looked angry. She wanted to say something. Something or someone is stopping her."

Natasha looks troubled. "What could do that?"

Steve scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. "I wish I knew." He looks around. "I don't think there's anything else I can do here. I need to hit the books and see if I can figure out who or what is blocking them like this." He chews on his pinkie fingernail idly. "Or binding them," he amends, an ugly suspicion growing in his mind. 

"All right, back to DC. I'll see if I can dig up anything in my homework too."

=====

"Hey, Nat?"

"Steve?" Her voice is rusty on the other end of the line; fair enough, it's 2 AM, but this can't wait. Or at least Steve can't hold it in any longer.

"I need you to check on the... the bodies. From the CDC murders."

"Check on them how?"

"Just... lay eyes on them. Or ask someone you trust to lay eyes on them and tell you if... if there's anything unusual?"

"Steve, they were shot with high-powered rifles at close range, multiple times. Everything is going to look unusual."

"I mean... look, if it's what I think it is? You'll know. I hope I'm wrong. I really, really hope I'm wrong. But."

"Hey, hey, okay, I'm on it, all right?"

"Thanks, Nat." Steve pauses. "Natasha?"

"What is it."

"If you can't do it in person, then I mean it, send someone you trust. Someone you trust deep. This is... just make sure, okay?"

"I will."

She hangs up, and Steve blows out a long, slow breath. God, he hopes he's wrong.

=====

Two days later they're in the café where their partnership officially started, and Nat looks ruffled. Steve gulps. Natasha doesn't _get_ ruffled. Natasha eats takeout from the box while watching autopsies and snaps her gum at the grim reaper. 

"So I'm guessing this won't be a surprise to you," she starts as Steve sits down, passing a decaf white mocha over to him as she speaks. "But their mouths had been removed." She grimaces at the memory, although her appetite seems reassuringly unaffected; she's scraping jam from a little Kraft packet in to the disgustingly strong tea she favours.

For all that Steve was preparing himself for this from the moment he saw the look on her face, he is... not prepared. He chokes a little on his drink, and takes a minute to compose himself while he dabs ineffectively at the coffee he just horked on to his jacket. The difference between "mouth is absent" and "someone cut a mouth out," even just in his imagination, is pretty stark.

"I was... not hoping to hear that. But yeah."

"How did you know?"

Steve looks morose. "It's the only thing that could explain the way they were restricted."

Natasha frowns. "But I thought injuries in life didn't carry over?"

"Usually? They don't. This was more than that. Whoever... uh... removed... yeah. Whoever did it must have done it as part of a binding rite. Remove the mouth and you remove the symbolic centre of communication. That's why they could move up until they tried to use their motion to tell me something."

"This is so gross."

"Well, yeah. But it's more. If that was all they wanted, any spirit worker could have just sent the spirits on their way. But they didn't. Someone is using them, and not just to cover their tracks." Steve shivers. "I've heard of this happening to other spirit workers, people who didn't take precautions when they died. We make good fuel for a lot of nasty magic."

"But these weren't mediums. Media? What do you say when you meet each other on the street?"

"Uh, mediums."

"Right. These weren't mediums. They were scientists. Occult specialists, but still... neither Standish nor Chow did any direct spirit work, the CDC contracts that part out as needed."

"I know. And that's... not good news. Non-magic users aren't as powerful as raw fuel, but anyone's soul can be used in a pinch. My guess is that someone is preparing a powerful working that needs souls _and_ expertise. And our guys? Were experts in controlling and containing ghouls."

Natasha nods grimly. "Sounds like Hydra."

"Sounds like Hydra." Steve looks up suddenly. "Did you... who inspected the bodies?"

Natasha places a hand over his quellingly. "I did it myself, don't worry. You don't call me at 2 AM a lot. I got the picture." She sips her tea and continues quietly. "I flew out yesterday, and I have the right kind of jurisdiction to visit the morgue without ringing any alarm bells for anyone."

Steve left out a relieved sigh. "You're thinking it too, right?" He fiddles with his coffee's cardboard sleeve nervously.

"That Hydra did this _after_ the bodies were collected by the police? That Hydra has people high up enough to control police evidence and hide straight-up mutilating corpses? Yeah, I'm thinking it pretty loud."

Her voice is almost whisper-quiet, though. Steve drops his to match. "So, uh, what do we do about that?"

Natasha rubs her forehead with two fingers, looking tired. "I don't know yet. I think we need to find out more first. We'll have to play the game." She fixes Steve with a look. "We can't let anyone know about this. Not until I know who we can trust."

Steve nods. "I don't know how to get more information, though. I tried calling a few more times, but I can't get around the block. I'm stumped, Nat."

Natasha places her other hand over the one already pressed to Steve's, this time slipping a piece of paper into his hand. He tries not to make a weird face as he tucks it against his palm. Cloak and dagger isn't really his forte, but his new life goal of not winding up a mutilated corpse is pretty good motivation to try his hardest.

"I guess now we drink our coffee and wait for inspiration to strike," she says brightly, then changes the subject to a new art gallery exhibit she saw. Steve responds in kind on autopilot, pulse thundering in his ears as he nonchalantly slips the note into his pocket.

Later, at home, he slips it out and reads it:

**_Need to get you on scene before the cleanup crew arrives. I have a plan. You have a blind date with a guy named Clint, at the Italian place in CityCentre we went to last month, tomorrow night, 9pm. If he mentions his roommate Emily, follow him home. Wear sturdy shoes._ **


	3. Chapter Three: The Winter Soldier Is Like, Totally Dreamy

Steve hopes the request for sturdy shoes wasn't an indicator that he was going to wind up on a construction site or something, because he's otherwise dressed, well, for a blind date. A nice pale blue button-down, a tie, fitted black jeans, a little eye-shadow... He's also hoping that if this really is a blind date, Clint is paying. That restaurant wasn't cheap.

He tugs nervously at his tie as he scans the restaurant for someone who might be a Clint. He had to YouTube the tie instructions and he's still not totally sure he didn't get it backwards. He stops worrying when he makes eye contact with a tall, built guy alone at a table for two who waves at him enthusiastically. Tall built guy has a clip-on bowtie. A clip-on bowtie which is half falling off. Steve's half-Windsor knot game is officially More Than Adequate.

"Hey, hi, Steve right? Natalie's told me SO much about you!" Clint gushes. 

"Hi, yeah, that's me! You must be Clint? Natash—uh. Nat. alie. Natalie's told me... basically nothing about you?" Natalie? Was there homework for this date that Steve missed? It's been years since Steve was taking classes, but a childhood full of sick days, missed assignments and notes, and almost being held back in the fourth grade has left him slightly traumatized by the whole idea. 

"Hah! Oh Natalie, that's just like her." His laugh sounds convincingly natural. Is he a spy colleague of Natasha's? He's good at this. Steve startles suddenly when the waiter next to him clears his throat. Shit, head in the game, Rogers! But Clint's way ahead of him. "Ooh, drinks, give us a minute to decide. Couple of ice waters to start? Thanks, you're a peach." The waiter gets a sour look, probably evaluating a request for ice water as a sign of poor tip prospects down the line, and walks off without comment.

Clint's phone starts to play IF YOU LIKE PIÑA COLADAS loudly, and he flicks the screen open. "Oh, no!" he gasps, a little over the top. "Shit, Steve, I'm so sorry, but my sister Emily has a flat tire, I've just got to go help her out."

Steve blinks like a goldfish, still trying to put together a mental model of who would possibly have that song as the ring tone for their _sister_. Also, wasn't Emily supposed to be his roommate? Does this mean something different? Clint kicks him under the table, still smiling apologetically. 

"Oh! Oh dear! Um. It's okay!" says Steve, a little too loudly. He turns pink and dials it back a bit. "Why don't I um, why don't I go with you? I can... help with the tire? Maybe we'll have time for drinks after?"

"Why Steve, Natalie didn't tell me you were such a gentleman! I accept." Clint stands and makes for the door, gripping Steve by the elbow and pulling him along in his wake. "Sorry!" he yells over to the profoundly uninterested waiter. "Emergency!" he says, tapping his phone.

Clint's parked a block and a half down. He's driving a predictably black, bland town car that Steve is pretty sure is from the SHIELD motor pool. He keeps up a steady stream of smalltalk, not bothering to check if Steve is listening or responding, until the doors are closed and he's starting the engine.

"Hey, sorry man, I know that was awkward."

Well that was certainly true. "It's okay, it's fine." Steve catches his breath for a moment and lets his brain catch up. "Was that all really necessary, though? I mean, I don't know much about um. Your line of work. But."

Clint laughs. "100% not necessary. I could've just picked you up at the corner. I think Nat thought it would be funny."

"Oh. Okay that does sound like her." Things were a little more dire than usual at the moment, but Steve had seen Nat crack horrible dad jokes during a senate deposition; if there was a line she felt was too serious to cross, he sure hadn't seen any evidence of it yet. "So uh... where are we going? Nat really didn't tell me anything about... anything really. I mean, I'm guessing this has something to do with—" wait, does he even know Clint is her co-worker? "—with, uh, with Atlanta?" he finishes with a squeak.

Clint reaches over to pat his shoulder. "Hey, sorry, it's cool. She told me about all the ydra-hay business." Well that was... not at all encouraging? But it was reassuring. At least, a little. "Nat got a tip about something ugly going down in the warehouse district tonight. And she seems to think you need to be there while it's happening?"

Steve fingers his pendant and looks out the window. "Yeah," he says softly. "You know I'm a—"

"Medium. Yup."

"Yeah. Well, ydra-hay has been doing something hinky with the murder victims and I can't talk to them. But if I can get there before they have time to... do their thing, well. There's a chance, anyway, that I can ask some questions you guys can't."

Clint nods. "That tracks. Well, in addition to being the most handsome blind date a boy could ask for, I'm here to watch your back." 

"I uh, I appreciate that." 

"Here, take this." Clint reaches behind his seat and gropes around, then dumps a duffel bag on Steve's lap. "There's an armoured vest and a headset for you in there."

Steve wiggles into the vest, which actually fits him pretty well, and slips on the headset, which sits awkwardly over his hearing aid. He fiddles with it for a bit and something makes a SNAP noise. "Uh oh."

Clint snorts. "Heh. First time in the field?" 

Steve turns red. "Yeah. I'm usually more of an after the fact kind of guy. Way, _way_ after the fact." He takes off the headset and looks at it. The plastic headband part is snapped cleanly in two. "I uh. I broke your thing," he admits despondently.

Clint waits until they're at a red light and looks over. "Oh! Shit, sorry, Nat didn't mention you... hang on." He rummages around in the glove compartment and pulls out another earpiece, considerably nicer-looking, but bulkier, almost like... 

"Oh! It fits over..."

"Yup. That's one of my spares." Clint grins and taps his own ear. "We match!" Steve looks up at Clint's ear and is surprised to see a hearing aid. A pretty swanky one, a lot sleeker than the beige clunker that was all Steve's insurance would cover. 

"Huh! I wouldn't have thought that would be... uh... allowed? Aren't you guys like practically military?"

Clint shrugs. "Let's just say I have some unique qualifications. They were... pretty motivated to recruit me, bum ears and all."

Steve nods approvingly. "Good! Those are bullshit rules anyway." Steve is possibly still bitter about his failed attempt to enlist after highschool. Granted, he's not a hunk of muscle like Clint obviously is, but... well, access to the GI Bill would have been nice. He's still hip-deep in student loans. Huh, is he gonna get combat pay for tonight? Is that a thing? His SHIELD compensation package was nebulous to start with; now that HR might be secretly evil, he... okay maybe W-2s aren't what he should be focusing on right now.

Clint pulls into a poorly-lit parking structure and creeps at 5 miles an hour up to the third level, where Natasha, dressed to kill, probably literally, is waiting for them. Steve swallows, cinches up his vest a little tighter, and hops out of the car. 

Time to do this thing. Whatever it is.

=====

Half an hour later, Steve is perched on a catwalk in a super sketchy warehouse, hugging his knees to his chest, one hand clutching his pendant. Clint is next to him, with an actual _bow and arrow_ , though he does have a more conventional revolver on his belt. Steve is dying of curiosity about how that's like, a thing, but Natasha had just nodded at it like a bow and arrow is totally normal equipment for a badass spy raid, so Steve didn't dare comment. Clint's clearly a little outside the box just in general. His goofy good nature is overlaid with an undeniable air of deadly competence, though, and more importantly, Natasha trusted him. 

They're waiting for Hydra to show up and... well, Natasha wasn't very clear on what Hydra is going to be doing here, but it's Hydra, so a murder party is Steve's bet. He doesn't want to watch a murder. He doesn't want to watch an attempted murder, even. But he doesn't want Hydra to bring a ghoul army to his neighbourhood either, so he's game to rack up some trauma tonight if it means he can ask some ghosty questions that could help prevent that.

They're not kept waiting long. There's a loud crunching sound and the big metal loading bay doors creak open slowly. A half dozen guys in the same kind of tactical fashion-forward outfits as Clint and Natasha walk in, escorting two men in business suits - one clearly terrified, and the other a smug blond man Steve feels like he recognizes from somewhere. Clint curses under his breath as he looks over the agent guys. Steve looks over at him in alarm; Clint waves his concern away. "Old friends," he whispers bitterly. Ouch. 

He's distracted from wondering about this when he catches sight of one more armed guard; where the others are dressed in black kevlar, this guy's in black leather, with a couple hundred pounds of heavy weaponry strapped on like it's nothing, plus a creepy black face mask and, capping the goth serial killer experience, a metal arm. It doesn't look like a medical prosthetic; the way he carries himself Steve is pretty sure it's another weapon. Jesus. 

And that's all pretty concerning. But there's something more. Something feels off about him. It's like... 

The pendant starts to vibrate in Steve's palm and he hurriedly takes his hand away from it, letting it float up, and... oh. Oh.

The eerie sense of the beyond settles over his vision, layered on top of the living world, and now it's obvious what's wrong with the newcomer: he's a spirit. But not like any Steve's ever seen before. For one thing, Clint can obviously see him too, and those guns sure look, well, tangible. Way too tangible for comfort, frankly. For another... he's wrapped in chains. Those Steve is pretty sure are purely in the spirit realm; they glow green and he can see the lines of power streaming from them, centred in a nasty looking collar on the man's neck, and twined around something on his shoulder. Steve leans forward a bit, trying to make out what it is, and his pendant seems to want to look too, the star gem tugging at its chain as it pulls toward the figure below. Clint wordlessly passes over a compact little set of binoculars; Steve accepts it, nodding gratefully, hoping they actually work on spirit visions. But then his reading glasses seem to work fine for that stuff, so maybe these will too...?

They do, and Steve almost drops them in surprise when he adjusts the focus and the image sharpens up, revealing another star gem. This one is set in to the man's metal arm, and as Steve watches, it changes from a dull, lifeless red to a bright, glowing light in the darkness. The rings of Steve's pendant start to spin, and the light from the soldier's star begins to pulse in synch with them. What on earth...

The soldier looks up suddenly, straight at Steve. Steve rears back, tries to cover the light of his own star gem with a trembling hand, though without much success; it wiggles free and floats up again, rings speeding up even as the soldier's gem flashes faster to match. Clint is in motion, tucking Steve behind him, frantically muttering something to Natasha over the comms, but Steve can't make it out, suddenly caught up in the soldier's eyes. He's not looking through the binoculars any more, but now that their gems are having their weird little communion, it doesn't seem to matter; it feels like they're up close, face to face, and the soldier's eyes...

Steve's mouth drifts open in horror. The soldier's eyes are full of pain, of longing. He's _trapped_. Whoever is responsible for making this chimera of man and metal and ghost, it's not him; he's the clay but not the sculptor, and it's so, so wrong. Without thinking, Steve clutches his gem and closes his eyes, reaching out without really knowing what for, wrapping the soldier's aura in his own. In the background he's dimly aware that the men below have made them, have realized they've been set up, are fanning out to engage Natasha and her squad. Instinctively he turns outward, trying to _protect_ the soldier. The soldier's eyes turn shocked, and he glances down to his own shoulder. Steve is fierce with sorrow and sympathy and determination, an indignant fire in his heart at the thought that someone has trapped this poor soul, and he crushes the masked soldier's spirit to himself, placing himself between the man's heart and the burning green chains, and he... flexes, there's no other word for it, flexes himself like his soul is a muscle. 

The star gem on the man's arm cracks. It's soundless, and the men on the ground don't seem to notice, but they surely notice what comes next: the soldier whips around and takes out one of his colleagues with his metal fist, kicking out at another. His mask is still firmly in place, but Steve somehow knows that underneath he would find a grim smile. 

[](https://imgur.com/U1oEAkP)

The blond man, looking less smug now, shouts "Take him down! Wipe protocol!" and one of the Hydra goons steps forward with a dart and jabs it into the soldier's neck, getting a metal fist to the face for his trouble. The soldier slumps down a moment later, whatever drug the dart delivered taking effect, but Steve feels one last wave of satisfaction from him before he falls to the floor. Steve's pendant drops back down to his chest at this, connection lost.

"Get me out of here," the blond leader growls, and the four still-conscious Hydra soldiers surround him and push back to the doors, two of them dragging the spirit soldier's body with them rudely by his legs as they go, uncaring of whether his head drags on the concrete floor. They slip out and Steve can hear the squeal of wheels as they drive away. He shakes his head and falls backwards against the catwalk's railing, his heart thundering as if it was only just now noticing they were in the middle of a fucking firefight. Clint is in front of him in seconds, pulling out... hah, his inhaler, why does Clint... 

"Whoa there, short stuff. Breathe with me, kid."

Kid! Kid? Come on, just because he's... oh. Steve's brain catches up and he wraps his lips around the mouthpiece, takes a puff, holds his breath in, lets it out... oh. Oh hey. Oxygen. Right.

"You back, buddy?"

Steve nods, dazed, blood rushing to his head, but starting to connect back up to the land of the living. "Clint. I need to. Natasha."

"Sure thing, bud. Just... let's wait a minute until she clears the place, okay?"

Steve nods vaguely and slumps back down. 

What the hell just happened?

=====

When they catch up with her, Natasha is staring down the Hydra suit guy who had looked terrified when he walked in. Apparently with good reason, considering how quickly Hydra had ditched him when things went south. Having his wrists cuffed with zip-ties and being the object of Natasha's intense glare has done nothing to calm him down, either.

"Steve. Sorry you had to be here for that. Looks like we didn't need you after all."

"You didn't?"

"Uh... no? There was no one for you to question. No one died."

Steve blinks. "Well, not here, anyway." 

Natasha frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Their soldier. The one who went all rogue? He's dead."

"He's what?"

"Deeeeeead," Steve drawls, then starts giggling. Shit, he's still a bit punchy from the freaky spy showdown. Deep breaths, Rogers. "Uh. A spirit, I mean."

"But I could see him. Clint, you saw him, right?" 

"Kind of hard to miss," Clint adds from where he's pulling ridiculous faces at Hydra Suit Guy, who looks like he's about to wet himself just from the confusion.

"He may have a physical presence, but he was covered in spectral chains, and those don't work on the living. And he had a gem like mine." Steve pulls out his pendant. "In his arm."

"Huh." Natasha brushes her finger over his star gem idly.

"And um. I. Well. I kind of..."

"Kind of..."

"I kind of broke it?"

"You broke... how? You were up top the whole time. Weren't you? Clint—stop that, Clint, leave him in one piece for me to interrogate." Clint pouts and slinks over to where they're standing. "Clint, you kept Steve on the catwalk, right? You didn't like, ignore your one and only job?"

"He didn't go anywhere!" Clint replies, indignant.

"I didn't! He was great, he arrowed all kinds of guys who were looking at me."

"So how did you break the gem?"

"I'm... not exactly sure. I traveled, sort of. You know about astral projection?" 

"Whoah, is that real?" asks Clint, fascinated.

"Yup. It's not as useful as you might think. But uh. Anyway. My spirit went to him. And I... I kind of... hugged him? Violently? And then it cracked. And then. And that's when. That's when he kind of went berserk and started punching the Hydra guys."

"Huh. I wondered what was going on there. Not every day you watch the Winter Soldier turn on his masters."

"Wait, the Winter Soldier? Like your file?"

Nat nods. "Until tonight he was just a ghost story, as far as the evidence was concerned." She looks up at Steve fondly. "But if knowing you has taught me anything, it's that some ghost stories are true." She pauses. "This kind of sends us back to square one, though. If he's real, or I mean, like, if he's got a physical body, he can't be our murderer."

"I think maybe he can be," says Steve slowly. "He's dead enough to be held by spectral chains. He's probably dead enough to pass through matter."

"And bring his guns with him?"

"That part I'm not sure about. But do we know he did? There was a gun rack in the panic room. Could Hydra have planted weapons for him in the CDC lab, too?"

Natasha's eyebrows shoot up and she looks over at Clint. "Shit," they say in unison. Nat looks back to Steve, a crooked grin on her face. "Good thinking. I'll find out. Clint—you want to take Steve home? He's had a long night. And I need to have a little chat with my new friend here." She kicks Hydra Suit Guy idly.

As if on cue, he pipes up with "I don't know anything about that guy! I'm just a shopkeeper!"

Natasha looks unimpressed. "A shopkeeper. In a three-piece suit in an abandoned warehouse with Hydra's top brass in the middle of the night."

"I carry some... specialty items. For select clients."

"And what were tonight's clients buying, exactly?"

"I can't—" he trails off as Natasha starts to smile at him. Clint cracks his knuckles. "Ahandofgloryandafewskeletons PLEASE DON'T HURT ME PLEASE DON'T HURT ME"

"A hand of what now?"

"Glory," supplies Steve, feeling dizzy again. "A hand of glory. Fuck."

Natasha jerks her head at Clint, who darts in and hefts Steve up in a bridal carry just before he collapses. Steve can't muster the will to complain; he's woozy enough to admit to himself that standing upright wasn't in the cards for him any more tonight. Natasha purses her lips. "On second thought, maybe Steve should join me for this conversation. Clint, get Steve some Gatorade and a sandwich and meet me at the safehouse on McBride in an hour." Clint nods and strides serenely toward the door, barely seeming to notice Steve's weight in his arms. Steve gives up and dozes off. It's been a long night and it's not over yet, apparently.

=====

Traveling salesman guy doesn't have anything else useful to tell them; before the warehouse meeting he had only corresponded loosely by email with Hydra, and only knew who they were by rumour. But he'd said enough already, as far as Steve was concerned.

"So what's this hand of glory business?" Clint asks around a mouthful of takeout pad thai. Natasha shoves a napkin at him. Clint ignores it.

Steve puts down his own fork. "I kind of didn't think they were real before. But if they are, it's big trouble. It's like a battery for evil. It's a dried hand, supposedly from someone who was hanged, prepared with some creepy-ass ritual. Then you use it as a candlestick to activate the power."

"A candlestick?"

"Yup. Mash a candle onto the end of each finger and light them, one at a time. Each one gives the person who lights it the power for one wish, and temporarily makes them immune from harm—it paralyzes everyone else nearby."

"Shit."

"You said it."

"What kind of wish?"

"Well, any kind, big or small, only there's a catch."

"Which is..."

"The wish tends to backfire. The wisher is cursed, sort of, to suffer whatever the worst consequence of their wish could be. So like, you wish for a million dollars and you get it—but maybe by inheriting it from someone you love who died suddenly as soon as you made the wish. Or you wish for infinite strength and then cough so hard you die. Ironic consequences. Cartoon logic. That kind of thing."

"So we're safe?"

"Depends how stupid they are? Nothing saying the wish can't hurt other people too. They could wish for a ghoul uprising, and maybe the wisher gets his face eaten off, but so does half the Eastern Seaboard."

Clint looks despondent and goes back to eating. 

"What if someone else makes the wish?" Natasha puts in.

"Huh?"

"What if Hydra gets someone else to make the wish. Someone they control."

Steve drops his fork. "The Soldier."

Natasha nods. "The Soldier. Especially if they can't fix that crack in his star. If they only have erratic control of him, I'll bet they won't hesitate to throw him in front of the ghoul bus."

Steve clenches his jaw. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

=====

Natasha and Clint had looked at each other, but kindly had not _actually_ snickered at Steve's declaration. Natasha had soothingly hustled him upstairs to a spare bedroom and pulled back the sheets, suggesting he sack out after the long day he'd had. Which, well, Steve couldn't argue with that. He was asleep in under a minute.

Steve didn't usually remember his dreams, or if he did, it was vague, nonsensical snippets. He's never gone in for dream interpretation. His covenmates include an oneiromancer; he knows dreams can be powerful, just, that doesn't seem to be part of his particular gift.

So it was a little odd to wake up inside a dream, to come to and be floating in purple mist, conscious but also aware that he was still unconscious.

Okay, more than a little odd.

The oddness doubled down on itself and went for mega-odd shortly, as a figure solidified out of the purple mist to face him. It wasn't a face Steve recognized, exactly, but something about the eyes...

"It's you! You're the... the Winter Soldier."

The man cringes. "You've... you've met me? Oh god, I'm so sorry."

Steve blinks. "Uh. Yeah. Tonight at the warehouse? Why are you sorry?"

"Didn't I hurt you?"

"No...?"

"I always hurt people. That's what I'm for." 

Steve's heart breaks a little. Oh, honey. "Well, I guess it's my lucky day, you didn't even try to hurt me. You only hurt those jackasses trying to control you."

The man's jaw—his pretty, pretty jaw, god DAMN—drops at this. "I hurt my handlers? On purpose?"

Steve grins. "Oh hell yes, on purpose. You should've seen yourself, you were amazing. You kicked this one asshole in the head, like—" Steve flails around trying to imitate it, falls over a bit but is nudged back upright by the purple mist. Handy stuff. "Okay I don't do enough yoga to do the thing you did, but it was really awesome."

The soldier closes his mouth. "Huh. I guess that would explain the wipe. It felt... early."

"The wipe?"

The soldier looks up at him sadly. "It's a long story."

Steve looks around at the mist surrounding them. "Well, it's not like there's anything else to do here. Tell me the story? Only—first, what's your name? I don't want to just call you Soldier."

"That is my name. Sort of. I mean, I don't really have one, a real one. I don't... there's no point, you know?"

"I really, really don't." Steve sits down cross-legged, which causes him to slowly float upwards so he's still even with the Soldier. "So? Story time?"

"Okay, well. Uh. It's a long story that I don't... actually know much of. I don't remember things. When I start to remember things I get wiped."

"You said that before. Wiped. What do you mean, you get wiped?" 

"I'm... erased. They take away the memories. I don't really... well I don't remember having my memory taken, but then, I wouldn't, would I?" He looks off into the distance. "There's pain. That's all I keep, is the pain." he adds softly.

Steve notices something suddenly. "Your arm..." 

"Huh?"

"Your... you have two arms."

The Soldier squints at Steve. "So do you, pal."

Steve reddens. "I mean... you didn't. When we met. Well you had... one real arm and one metal arm."

The Soldier looks alarmed. "A metal arm? I don't..." he trails off. "No, that's right, I do, I have..." He clutches his head with both hands. "Augh, it hurts to think about."

Steve reaches out and puts a hand over one of the Soldier's hands. "Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to—Whoah!" He's cut off by the Soldier stiffening up suddenly as if in fright. Steve holds his hands out in front of himself. "Hey, hey, whoah, not gonna hurt you! Sorry, I should have asked before touching you, I didn't think."

The Soldier is looking at him in shock, mouth working but no words coming out.

"Uh... Soldier? Are you okay?" Shit, shit, shit, Steve has HAD it with spirits whose mouths don't work this week. 

But instead of vibrating and disappearing, the Soldier darts forward and grips one of Steve's hands, tight, and stares at it in wonder. "You can touch me."

Steve's hand is being a bit crushed in the Soldier's grip, but he ignores the pain, soaking in the intense look in the Soldier's eyes. "Yeah?"

The Soldier looks up at him. "No one... no one's touched me in a long, long time."

Steve runs a thumb over the soldier's hand, and his grip loosens a bit, though it stays firm around Steve's hand. "Are you sure? I mean, they dragged you out last night, so they had to touch you to do that. And you sure touched them with your fists and your boot."

Soldier shakes his head. "That body, sure, they touch that all the time for maintenance. I mean this one." He gestures at himself with his free hand. "My actual body."

"So that's not... that wasn't you? It had your face. Well, your eyes anyway."

"It's... " He closes his eyes in concentration. "Ugh, it's hard to hold on to the thought. It's... a fabrication. An abomination. It's part machine, part flesh, and part... it takes on my form because I'm the... pilot? They use my... self to... Nnnngh." He drops Steve's hand and clutches his head again. "To... augh. It hurts."

Steve straightens up and closes the distance between them, pulling the Soldier's head to his chest, stroking his hair soothingly. "Hey, hey, it's okay. You don't have to tell me if it hurts."

"I... I want to tell you. I want you to know. I want to... _I_ want to know. I want..." He stops, then curses indistinctly. "They're booting me up."

"Booting... like a computer?" 

"Don't know. That's what they call it. They... they infuse my... my self into the... their body." He gasps with relief at having gotten the full sentence out, and pants heavily for a moment in Steve's arms. 

"Huh. That explains—"

The Soldier wiggles free and grasps Steve's head with both hands. "Stop. I need.... If this is the only time..." He leans in and kisses Steve, fiercely. Steve jerks in surprise, but then gets with the program and joins in. Is this really a dream? Would a dream be this warm? And wet, and soft, and—

The Soldier abruptly pulls away, clutching his head again. "Fuck, fuck, I can't..."

Steve grabs his wrist. "I'm here, I'm right here. I'm Steve, by the way. I'm Steve. I'm Steve and I'm right here with you," he repeats, stupidly, not sure what to say but somehow sure that his presence was the most important thing. 

"Steve," gasps the Soldier. "Steve. Thank you."

"Soldier?" But he's gone; Steve is clutching at a wisp of mist.

"I'm going to find you," he promises.


	4. Chapter Four: Shit Gets Strange

Steve wakes up full of determination and empty of actual plans of attack. He tries a few times to summon the Soldier's spirit, but whether it's the chains on his spectral form or some other aspect of the enchantments that bind him, he is unreachable. There's got to be some way to find him. But how do you track down a dream? 

Clint drops him back at his house, then heads off to do something sneaky with Natasha. Steve doesn't ask. His visit to their world in the warehouse last night has made him aware that they have very, very different skillsets. Clint and Nat are sharpshooting badasses. Steve is more of a safely-ensconced-in-a-library, ironing-the-tablecloth-for-the-seance, _mystic_ kind of badass. Harnessing the supreme power of... staying up too late reading. That and wanting things really hard. That was what all the techniques of a medium came down to in the end: a stubborn refusal to let go of your focus, the ability to make your own desire so strong that it could pierce and overcome the desires of the recently dead. And when it comes to being stubborn, Steve is a master.

He's no dream master, though. But... maybe he knows someone who is.

=====

He's missed the last couple of coven meetings, caught up in Nat's investigation. It's soothing to be back, to relax into the ritual, the circle, the candles. He doesn't go in for this kind of paraphernalia in his own practice. The star gem is all he's ever needed, and he can call spirits without even that, at need. It's like a spiritual megaphone. It makes the work easier, but the gift is inside him. 

But his easy mastery of his power is unusual; most of the coven members have more modest gifts, and rely on the props to guide them in to the right frame of mind. Kitchen-witches who can extend the life of food, light-bringers and raincallers, stitch-witches whose knots never fray and who can seal broken skin, truthsayers and dousers: power over small, everyday things. The craft was a dominant social force in times past, but modern technology has supplanted the need for many of their gifts, and so to most the coven was a hobby, an old-fashioned pursuit like quilting that you take up to keep busy rather than because you depend on the results. Tupperware and refrigeration can duplicate a lot of the effects of kitchen magic. Truthsayers are no longer considered binding testimony in the modern legal system. Stitch-witches used to be the difference between life and death in the days before antibiotics; but hanging out a shingle saying "Urgent care—minor cuts only; no rashes; insurance not accepted" was not a viable business plan anymore. Honestly Steve wasn't sure being a medium was a great business plan, either. He had a lot of lean months, and if it weren't for SHIELD cases padding the bottom line occasionally, he would probably have given it up as a day job long since out of necessity. 

After the circle is concluded and the four quarters have been released, he goes to get a coffee and some baked squares—pastry made by a kitchen witch is nothing to turn down lightly—then casts around the room for his target, one of the handful of other men in the coven. Ah! There he is. 

Him and his cape.

Dr. Stephen Strange is aptly named. He's an actual medical doctor, a neurologist, but found time to carry on his family's craft of oneiromancy. And who knows, perhaps the gift of walking in dreams helps with some of his patients. That part was fine; Steve was in no position to judge someone for having a weird side job. No, Stephen Strange just _dressed_ strangely, and got quite put out if you mentioned it in anything but glowing terms. A sweeping red cape, like he was Lord Dracula or something. A glowing medallion, and, okay, Steve has one of those too, but he keeps his under his shirt unless he's working with it, not in a gold filigree cage polished to a high shine and worn over a silk sash which had actual tassels. And the man's eyebrows... Well, if Steve made doctor money maybe he'd hire an eyebrow manicurist too.

Okay, no, he wouldn't.

Steve self-consciously retucks his shirt, trying to look as neatly turned out as possible, before walking over to Strange. He clears his throat nervously. Before he manages to say anything, though, they're interrupted. 

"Steven! Stephen. Steven. Stephen! Steven, have you met Stephen? Stupendous!"

Tony, of course. Tony's putative magical gift is lightbringing, something he's turned in to, among other things, a wildly profitable UV water-purification business. But if you ask anyone in the coven, they'll tell you that's just a front for his true talent: being a pain in the ass.

"Tony, if you have anything to say other than our names, pray have out with it and _leave._ " Ah, Dr. Strange, always a charmer.

"Calm down, Dr. Strangelove, I'm not going to steal your precious bodily fluids."

"You've used that one before, more than once, and yet I remain unreassured. Now are you quite finished?"

"Um, Dr. Strange? Sir?" 

Sir? What is Steve, 12? But oh well, it can't hurt to flatter him before asking a favour. 

"Yes, Mr.... Rogers, was it?"

Steve bristles internally but keeps a smile pasted on. They've known each other for years, and Strange knew his mother even longer. He knows perfectly well who Steve is. 

"Why, Dr. Sandman! You know Stevie-Q. The medium! The small medium. Now if he were on the lam, he'd be..."

"TONY." Steve and Stephen say in unison, then look at each other in mild horror. 

Strange turns his body to face Steve and block Tony from view. "What can I do for you, Steven."

Steve side-eyes Tony, who is taking this altogether too quietly, and turns to Dr. Strange. "I could use your professional opinion, actually."

Strange raises an eyebrow. "If you have a neurological concern, you can call my office tomorrow and speak with Rebecca."

"No, um, not. Not that profession. I have a... dream problem. Challenge. A dream challenge."

"Hawaii Steve-O! Have you finally had your first wet dream? It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. Let me buy you a cigar! Was I in it?"

Strange looks at Tony. Strange looks at Steve. "Why don't we discuss this somewhere more... restful."

They troop out to the parking lot, leaving a pouting Tony behind. Strange opens the passenger door of a sleek, late-model Jaguar and waves Steve inside. Steve is not sure a car in a parking lot is restful, exactly, but it is undeniably quieter. Strange gets in on his side, but doesn't fasten his seatbelt. 

"Are we going somewhere?" asks Steve.

Strange reaches out a hand to grasp Steve's shoulder, and—

Oh!

They're floating in the purple mist from his dream, Strange's cape billowing dramatically around him. Huh. So that's why he wears it. 

Strange looks around critically, then snaps his fingers. The mist turns a deep emerald green. Matching his ostentatious, bejewelled pendant, and setting off his red cape very dashingly.

Yeahhh maybe the mist isn't why he wears the capes.

Steve shakes himself, trying to focus on why he needed to talk to Strange.

"I had a lucid dream recently, and I spoke to someone, to a spirit. I need to find them."

"I'm not the telephone company. I can't trace your calls."

"I know, I just... I heard you could visit dreams. Can you... is there any way for you to see what I dreamt? Maybe your expert eye would see some clue that I missed. Please, it's important. I can't tell you everything, but lives are at stake." Steve pauses, then continues. "Maybe a lot of lives." 

Strange lifts an eyebrow, but seems to consider this seriously. "I can see what you were dreaming, yes, but that's not what you need. You need to see what you will dream."

Steve deflates. "So there's nothing you can do."

"I didn't say that."

Steve looks up at this. 

"When we dream," begins Strange, in a professorial tone, "time is illusory. Minutes drag on eternally; seasons pass in seconds. I am the Master of the Dreaming Mind, the Oneironaut Supreme." Steve can definitely hear the capital letters there. He wonders idly if he has a dream business card to that effect. "Time is no bar to my vision, not here."

Steve's heart rate picks up. Is this actually going to..? 

"Close your eyes and fall in to the dream you had." 

"Aren't I already asleep? Technically? I mean if we're here?"

The Master of the Dreaming Mind rolls his eyes. "Do you want my expertise or not?"

"Sorry! Eyes closing. Sleepytime coming right up." Well maybe not sleep. Steve is way too keyed up for that. But focus is something he has experience with. Focus he can do. He centres himself and calls his dream to him, tries to remember how it had felt to... Whoah.

The mist is purple again when he opens his eyes, and the Soldier is here, but not. It's his dream, but everything is frozen. Even the mist is completely still. Strange's cape is still swirling, though. That is one dramatic piece of outerwear.

"Mmm." intones Strange meaningfully. "Yes, I see your difficulty." He snaps his fingers again. Things start moving; there's a ghostly outline of Steve-from-the-dream speedily going through all the same motions he had the other night, the Soldier joining in the pantomime, although blessedly there is no sound. Hearing a smurf version of that freaky dream would be a bridge too far. Strange snaps again, twice, and reality seems to... flicker around him. His head isn't quite connected to his neck, or... no it is, but... now there's two of... Steve looks away before he gets sick. He doesn't know if you can puke in a lucid dream and he ardently does not wish to find out tonight. 

There's a sudden light, warmth flooding his eyelids, and his eyes shoot open. They're back in the car, mist vanished, and Tony, brilliant light surrounding his figure and bathing them in brightness, is leaning against the driver-side door. He snaps _his_ fingers—what is the deal with these two and snapping?—and Dr. Strange, who had been slumped back in his seat, sits upright. He rolls down the window and glares at Tony.  
"Tony, what have I told you about interrupting me while I—"

"Oh, stow it, sweetcheeks. You were doing that—" Tony gestures vaguely with his hands "—twitchy-witchy flickery business again. You told me that if that happened again I could, and I quote, `do whatever it takes to wake me up, Tony, but it doesn't matter, it won't happen again.' And yet!" Tony is working up serious speed and volume here; he'd make a great auctioneer. "And yet! Here we are, Strange. Here. We. Are."

Dr. Strange looks abashed, which is definitely an experience Steve will treasure forever. "So I did. Well."

"Wellll?"

Strange sighs elegantly. That's a thing you can do, apparently. "...thank you, Tony."

Tony nods. "You're welcome."

Steve mouths to himself " _sweetcheeks?_ " and apparently isn't stealthy enough about it, because Tony grins hugely and adds "Oh, didn't you know?" and then _licks_ Strange's face. And Strange... puts up with it? "We're married."

"Wait, really?"

Stephen Strange pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. "God help me, yes, it's true."

"Wow. Congratulations? Are congratulations in order?"

Strange looks over at Tony speculatively. "Hmm. That remains to be seen."

Tony sputters indignantly for a moment. Before he decides what outrageous pronouncement to reply with, Strange cuts him off with a gesture and turns to Steve.

"What you saw was the extrusion in to the dimensions your mind can apprehend of my voyage to your future in this timeline's probability-cluster." Steve frowns, trying to untangle that statement. "No, no, don't bother." Steve looks over at him sharply, but Strange continues on smoothly. "You will be at the following location tomorrow night at 10:10pm." He pulls out a prescription pad and writes an address on a street whose name Steve doesn't recognize. "It may be advisable to arrive early. I gather it will be an eventful evening for you."

Steve takes the prescription, mouth opening and then closing. Tony beams at him. "You're welcome too, sugar. Now get out of my seat."

=====

The next morning Steve is still trying to get the nerve up to call Natasha and tell her he wants company for a date with a ghost from a future dream, because that's not weird or anything, when she calls him.

"Hey, Rogers, got another job for you. Potentially."

"Oh?"

"We got word of another Hydra meet-up tonight. I'd like you to come with us again, in case our friend in chains makes another appearance."

"Shoot. I can't. I have to be... uh. I have a prophecy to fulfill."

There's silence on the line for almost 30 seconds before Nat loses it and cracks up. "Hah, sorry, I just... a prophecy!"

Steve sighs. "I know, I know. But this is legit. I think. If it pans out, it's a lead on where the Winter Soldier will be next." He pauses. "Wait. Where is your Hydra thing?"

"Hm? Another warehouse in the burbs."

"It's not on Loudoun County Parkway, is it?"

"As a matter of fact..."

"Hah! How do you like my prophecy now?"

"Very creepy. Don't think I'm not impressed."

"Aw, Nat! You're impressed?"

"Well, no. But I'd hate for you to think that."

"...I walked in to that one, didn't I."

"Take a nap, Rogers. Clint will pick you up at 8."

=====

Tonight's warehouse is definitely a cut above the previous one. It's full of carpet remainders, making it seem almost cozy. For a quasi-abandoned warehouse that's about to be the site of a sketchy underworld sting, anyway. The genre has limits. 

Steve is camped out behind a giant roll of Berber Beige Indoor-Outdoor Weave, Clint perched nearby on an empty wooden spool. He's pretending to comb his hair with one of his arrows and Steve is struggling not to giggle when suddenly he's gesturing for Steve to duck down, his erstwhile comb nocked and ready faster than Steve could see. The reason becomes apparent shortly: Four Hydra goons in black have entered the warehouse floor. Steve thinks at least one looks familiar, but he's not sure. He can just barely make out their conversation.

"That thing coming again tonight?"

"That _thing_ is Pierce's favourite pet. Tone it down when he's listening, I guarantee he likes it more than he likes you."

"Yeah well. I just hope it stays on its leash this time."

"You and me both. But it's cool. It's fresh off the conditioning tonight. It's like a robot the first few days after they wipe it. Why they don't just do that every night at bedtime is beyond me."

One of the four calls "Clear!" in to a radio, and they each take up a position surrounding the open square in the middle of the room where the light is strongest. The blond man from before—Pierce? Why does that sound familiar?—walks in, flanked by another pair of mooks and followed by—ah. Followed by the Winter Soldier, expression grim, his metal hand grasping the bicep of a nervous man in a suit. A different one from the other night, but every bit as sweaty and unhappy-looking. He's holding a briefcase in his unconstrained hand.

Pierce gestures for him to step ahead; he does, and places his briefcase on a folding card table one of the goons has produced from a dark corner. He glances nervously over at Pierce, who raises both eyebrows expectantly, and opens the briefcase.

Steve sucks air over his teeth as he sees what's inside. Yeah that's... that's definitely a hand of glory. 

So. Gross.

Pierce and Briefcase Guy are discussing its finer points in a low tone Steve can't quite make out. He turns his attention to the Soldier, who is standing blankly nearby, eyes watching the transaction, hands flipping a knife back and forth. Briefcase guy occasionally darts his eyes over at this and gets a little bit paler each time. 

Bet he wishes he'd gone in to plumbing, thinks Steve giddily.

He closes his eyes and tries to feel out for the Soldier's star gem. Maybe he can... ah. He finds it, and is pleased and a little surprised to find that it still bears the crack from the other night. From the way the goons were talking, the Soldier was mint-in-box after whatever horrifying procedures the wipe involves. The chains are still there, but only three now, down from seven the previous time. Did they not bother to fix them, or had they not noticed the damage? None of the Hydra personnel present twigged as gifted to Steve's senses, although he knew from personal experience that that wasn't always a reliable tell. He'd looked blank for the first twenty years of his life, after all.

The three remaining chains itch at him, offensive. Steve knows how to make chains, in theory. He'd never had to actually do it, but one of his mentors in Ireland had said a man who walks the other side needed to be able to defend himself at need. But only at need; she had impressed upon him that they were only to be used to contain dangerous spirits. They hurt, hurt and never stopped hurting, constant pain the only thing sure to make an impression on something as single-minded as a ghoul. It would be a cruelty beyond consideration to impose them on someone without direst need.

Steve can admit the Soldier is dangerous. But they'd made him dangerous; it was theirs to reap what they'd sown, not the Soldier's to bear eternally in their place. Steve wraps himself around the Soldier as before, sinking in between the notional limits of his physical form and the burning touch of the chains, and squeezes, hard, putting all his will behind it.

Steve Rogers' will is a not inconsiderable force.

The chains explode, throwing Steve out of his projection and back into his body. And the Soldier... with the chains gone, he closes his eyes briefly in an expression of profound relief, then opens them and uses his flesh hand to pry the star gem out of his arm. Forget cracked; the gem _crumbles_ in his grip like an overbaked cookie, disappearing in a red, glittering cloud that slowly dissipates into the starkly lit warehouse. 

The twinkling, or maybe just the Soldier's shift in position, catches the attention of one of the Hydra soldiers, but not soon enough. The Soldier is at Pierce's side in seconds, cutting him off in the middle of haranguing Briefcase Guy about when their skeletons would be delivered, gripping him by the neck and raising him off his feet, a rictus of absolute fury cut in half by his mask and twice as terrifying as a result. 

"Drop him or we'll shoot!" shouts one of the goons, stepping forward, the other three taking up positions around the pair. 

"JUST. SHOOT," Pierce manages to croak out.

Steve, forgetting that he's supposed to be hidden, leaps to his feet, hand extended, a strangled "NO!" on his lips... but he's too late, if there was even anything he could have done. One of the Hydra guards has taken the shot, a headshot, and the Winter Soldier is laid out on the floor, stone cold dead.

Steve having blown their cover, Natasha and her squad rush forward, subduing the Hydra team without much trouble in the confusion. Natasha herself has Pierce gagged and hogtied in a matter of minutes. Steve takes this in passively, staring blankly at the cooling corpse on the floor, the memory of a sweet kiss like ashes on his lips now. Clint supports him as he slumps back.

"Hey! Hey, hey, easy now. Steve? You with me, buddy?"

Steve shakes himself, tries to focus his eyes, wipes the tears off with a shirtsleeve and tries again. Focus. Focus. Someone's dead, okay, _that's exactly why he's here._ He grips his pendant tightly in a fist and frantically calls to the spirit of the Winter Soldier.

But there's nothing. Usually a murder victim is buzzing furiously around the site of their death, for weeks, months, years afterwards, trying to find peace. 

But not this time. The Soldier's body is an empty shell, with not so much as an echo of the quiet, soft person Steve had encountered in his sleep.

What kind of life did he have, that being executed in a lonely warehouse brought him peace? 

Steve leans back on Clint numbly, watching the agents book in their prisoners without really processing what he sees.

If the Soldier is at peace, shouldn't Steve be happy for him?

Steve tucks his head against Clint's chest and closes his eyes. Clint makes a soft sound and Steve doesn't protest when he's hefted up. Clint takes him out to the car and tucks him in to the back seat, draping a scratchy grey emergency blanket around him. "Hey, hang tight. We'll get you home just as soon as all the paperwork's set, okay?"

Steve nods silently and rolls over to hide his face.

=====

Natasha shakes him awake an hour later.

"Hey. Steve. I'm so sorry about this, but there's something I need you to see."

Steve nods numbly and sits up, scrounges around in the back seat until he finds where he kicked his shoes off, and follows Natasha, hopping awkwardly as he tries to jam his feet into them and walk at the same time. He crashes into her back when she stops in the middle of the warehouse and nearly falls over. She steadies him with one hand, looking at him with an oddly soft expression instead of the teasing he is expecting. 

They're standing over a body under a creepy black human-sized tarpaulin. What fucked up secret agent hardware store do you even buy those at? 

"Is that..." Steve swallows, not quite able to push the words out. 

"The Winter Soldier, yes." Natasha replies softly.

Steve shivers and resettles the blanket from the car around his shoulders from where it had drooped to tangle around his waist during his awkward hop-a-thon. "I know dead guys are kind of my specialty, but Nat, I. I really don't want to."

"I'm so sorry, honey. But I really need to know what you think about this, and it's not going to get any prettier." She sounds so sympathetic and understanding and sincere and not like Nat at all and everything is so not right tonight. She crouches down and flips back the tarp to reveal the Soldier's face.

Or... what should be his face. It's blank, featureless. Queasy, vague suggestions of a nose and chin and divots where eyes belong swim in front of Steve, and he thinks for a moment it's because tears are blurring his vision. But no, Natasha is crisp and sharp to his left; it's just the body.

It's like a store mannequin; any trace of the man from Steve's dream has been wiped clean. Is this what he meant by being wiped? But no, the Hydra guards from earlier said he'd been wiped before tonight, and he'd _had a face_ earlier in the evening. Steve is definitely sure he'd have noticed if the Soldier was _missing his fucking face_ when he walked in. 

He looks helpless up at Natasha. "What the fuck?"

She sighs. "So you have no idea either?"

"Yeah, not so much. This is messed up in a completely new-to-me way."

"I'm sorry you had to see it. Although I'm also kind of glad you can actually see it. I was starting to think I was losing it."

"After seeing mouthless corpses in Atlanta, _this_ was the last straw?"

"Okay, well, they are kind of aesthetically compatible, aren't they. Maybe I was just _hoping_ I was losing it, then I wouldn't have to try to describe this in an official report." She tucks the tarpaulin back over the body and stands, tugging Steve in to a crushing hug. This break in her reserve is freaking Steve out almost more than the faceless corpse he's just seen; it takes him a minute to realize she's actually trying to still his trembling. Because he's trembling. Okay he's full-on shaking, is what he's doing, he's a one-man seismic disaster.

Fuck, this has been a long night. He gives in and drops his forehead to her shoulder, trying to calm down.

"If it's any comfort, he died saving a lot of people. We've got Pierce in custody, and based on what the minions have been saying, he was the Hydra head honcho for all of North America. And we've got their nasty Hand of Gory. They won't be summoning a ghoul army any time soon."

"It's a Hand of Glory."

"It was a joke, Steve."

Steve sniffles. "You told it well."

"Ouch."

"I call 'em like I see 'em." The familiar banter is comforting, but— "Nat, can I go home now? I just... I really need to sleep."

"Just one more thing, and I'm so sorry to have to ask this, but it might be time-sensitive. Can you call his spirit?"

Steve shakes his head. "I tried." His voice is getting rougher and rougher; he can feel some ugly-crying coming on. "He's gone," he whispers. "He's gone, Nat."

She pats his head and lets him tuck it back down on her shoulder. "Shh, it's okay, Steve, it's going to be okay."


	5. Chapter Five: Dead Is Negotiable

Steve's asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. He doesn't have time to ugly-cry while he's still awake. But apparently you can do it while you're asleep, too. He's bawling, dream-snot running down his face, part of him feeling irritated that you can still feel exhausted _in a dream_ , like, I'm working on it, okay? Actively asleep over here? It takes him a long stupid moment before the implications of that hit him: he's in a dream. Was the purple mist here the whole time? It's here now. And he's not alone.

"Soldier...!"

The Winter Soldier is standing in front of him, a soft, sweet smile on his face. He's reaching out to wipe the tears off Steve's face. "It's Bucky, actually."

"What's Bucky?" asks Steve, snorting ungracefully to try to rein in some of the dream snot before the Soldier can touch it. He's smooth. The smoothest. 

"My name. Bucky Barnes."

Steve looks up at him, wide-eyed, mucus forgotten. "You remembered?" he asks, awe shading his voice.

Bucky smiles. "I remembered. Thanks to you. When you broke my last chains, it was like a fog lifted. When I broke the gem, it was like the sun came out."

"But then they shot you." Steve looks down, still feeling like he's to blame for that, at least a little.

Bucky smiles patiently and tips Steve's face up with a finger under his chin. "Then they shot me," he agrees. "And that's when I was freed."

"Freed?"

"Thrown out of that abomination of a body. And with the gem gone, they can't put me back."

"Huh. That explains..." Steve trails off, not really wanting to describe the creepy faceless corpse to Bucky, who is still smiling down at Steve like he hung the moon and stars. "Well I'm glad you're free. The chains must have hurt so much."

Bucky nods soberly. "So much, for so long. Until I met you." He leans in and nuzzles Steve's nose with his own. "Okay if I..." he whispers.

Steve nods enthusiastically, bashing into Bucky's nose accidentally as he does so. Bucky grins and cuts off Steve's apology with a kiss, longer and sweeter and deeper than before. Steve sighs happily in to Bucky's mouth. He's sad Bucky's dead, selfishly sad his spirit will move on soon enough now that he's found this peace, but happy, too, to have released him from his suffering. And very happy about this dream kissing business, hot damn.

Eventually they break apart, Bucky leaning forward to rest his forehead against Steve's affectionately. Or maybe just to avoid having his nose bonked again. 

"I owe you so much already, but I have one more favour to ask you."

"Anything, Buck." 

"I need you to help me die."

"Wait, what? But they shot you in the head! Isn't that usually pretty fatal?" And wasn't he a ghost to start with? Those chains...

Someone clears their throat nearby. Steve springs back, spooked, to find—

Dr. Strange. 

"Jesus Christ, how long have you been standing there?"

Strange glares at the mist for a moment, then snaps, sighing softly with relief when it turns green. "Not long. Longer than I'd like, though. This sort of voyeurism is Tony's kink, not mine."

Steve could have lived a long, happy life without learning that little tidbit, but okay. 

"Sergeant."

Bucky nods at Strange. "Dream-walker." He pauses. "Thank you," he adds.

Sergeant? "Wait, you two know each other?"

Strange gives Steve a condescendingly patient look. "How do you think I got that address for you?"

"Oh. Right."

"Let's get this over with. You're about to ask for my help."

"I am?"

Bucky clears _his_ throat and jumps in. "Uh. Yeah. You'll probably need it. They shot the Soldier body in the head, not me. My body is in, well." He chuckles nervously. "I'm in a deep-freeze somewhere. Cryogenic suspended animation."

"Suspended... okay. Where? How do I defrost you?"

"That's the thing, I don't know. There's not exactly a window in here. Plus my eyes are frozen shut. I think. That or it's the drugs."

"Jesus."

Dr. Strange waves to catch Steve's eye. "So..."

Steve blinks. "Oh! Dr. Strange, can you help me locate Bucky's real body? Uh. Please?"

Strange spreads his hands, nodding. "Glad we've all caught up."

"So where is he?"

"I have no idea and I can't tell you."

"What the hell? Why are you here, then?"

"I knew you would ask. This is less tedious than another coven encounter with Tony listening in."

"...oh."

"Ta ta."

Strange is gone. The mist stays green, though.

"Okay, that was weird."

Bucky smiles wryly. "Sorry. I seem to attract that kind of thing."

"Yeah, well, me too, now that you mention it." Steve straightens up, remembering Bucky's request. "So, do you know anything about where you could be?"

Bucky shakes his head. "Hydra put me here. I know they've moved me around. But I don't even know what continent at this point. I started out in Italy, but that was a long time ago."

"You're Italian?" 

"Naw, Brooklyn. But I was there in the war."

"Which war?"

"The Second World War. Why, how many are you up to now?"

Steve whistles, low. "No, that was the last world war. At least the last one named that. But there have definitely been more than a few wars since the end of that one."

"What um. How long has it been? I know it's been a while, but the newspaper delivery is terrible around here."

"It's 2019 now. So 75 years or thereabouts?"

"Shit, really?"

"'Fraid so."

"Christ."

"It's not all bad, we cured polio and smallpox. Oh! And we have cronuts now."

"You... what?"

"It's a croissant crossed with a doughnut."

"And you class this with a cure for polio?"

"Don't judge until you taste one. I'll make sure it's your first meal out of the freezer."

Bucky looks sadly at Steve. "Steve, I'm over a hundred years old. When you find me... I don't think there's gonna be any meals after that."

Steve looks stubborn. "We haven't just cured polio. Modern medicine can do some pretty wild stuff."

"Can you reverse old age?"

Steve is silent.

"That's what I thought," Bucky says gently. He reaches out to take Steve's hand. "Steve, I have loved getting to meet you. I love that in dreams you can meet me like I was before." He waves his free hand at himself. "But it's my time, and past my time. I've seen a lot of ugly things. I've _done_ a lot of ugly things. If you can find me and make sure my body can't be used by Hydra ever again, I will die a happy man. I hate to ask this of you. You've already done so much for me. But, well..." he laughs a bit hysterically "...my support network is a little limited."

Steve frowns, staring down at Bucky's hand in his, running his thumb over Bucky's fingers. "I guess I can understand that. So." He looks up, sad but determined. "Europe, maybe, but definitely somewhere Hydra owns or controls, right?"

Bucky nods. "I don't have the clearest memory of this part, but I think it took a lot of equipment to... use me. It won't be a small facility."

"I have no clue how to track you down. But I have some friends who are very interested in dismantling Hydra right now, and they should be able to help." Steve looks Bucky in the eye. "I don't know how long this is gonna take. But we will find you. _I_ will find you. I won't rest until... until you can rest. I promise." 

"I believe you, doll." Bucky leans in to press a final soft kiss to Steve's lips. "Thank you," he adds in a whisper.

=====

"Hey, Steve, sorry I'm late." Natasha slips out of her blazer and hangs it over her fancy office chair. "I got called to sit in on round 5 of Pierce's questioning."

"Who is that guy anyway? I mean, aside from Hydra. He looked familiar."

Natasha smiles wryly. "That would be because he is the Secretary of the World Security Council. Or, you know, he _was_."

Steve's eyes widen. "Ohhhhh. Oh shit."

"Yup."

"Wow."

"Yuuuuuup." She pops the P, grinning smugly. "Oh! That reminds me." She opens a drawer and pulls out an envelope, which she passes over. "A little token of SHIELD's appreciation for netting us such a huge headache."

It's a bank draft, this time for ten thousand dollars. "Holy shit!"

"Oh believe me, you earned it. A ghoul invasion that the US government could have been found liable for would have cost a pretty penny. You can probably push for more, honestly."

Steve looks up. "Actually, that's kind of why I'm here. I need a favour from SHIELD."

Natasha spreads her hands. "Name it. We're a little understaffed while all the Hydra people are being replaced, but stock in Steve Rogers is at an all-time high here right now."

"I had another dream. Bucky is alive." 

Natasha frowns. "Who the hell is Bucky?"

"The Soldier. The Winter Soldier. That's his name. He remembered it when I broke his chains."

"But he's... Steve, honey, you saw the corpse."

"The corpse with no face? Yeahhhh, not gonna forget that anytime soon." Steve shudders. "But this is why it had no face. His connection with it broke. He was like... he called it being the pilot. His real body is in a freezer. Cry... cryo... something something... suspended... something?"

"Cryogenic suspension?"

"Yeah! That sounds right."

"Huh. Just when I think this case can't get weirder."

"I know, right? It's like a haunted telenovela."

"So where is his other body?"

"That's what I need help with. He doesn't know. But Hydra are the ones who captured and froze him, so it has to be some place they own. I know that's not a small list, but... well if you find anything while you guys are mopping up after them, can you let me know? He says it will be a facility with a lot of equipment."

"Of course, Steve."

"Thanks. I just. I really need to find him." Steve replies in a small voice. 

"We will," pipes up a voice from the doorway. "I'm _amazing_ at hidden object games."

"Clint. It's called knocking."

"Nat. It's called I don't care."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "What do you want?"

"A puppy! But also I need you back in interrogation cell four, there's some juicy stuff going down."

"Already? Wow, I didn't think Maria had it in her."

"She's kind of personally offended that Hydra was in her org chart." Clint shivers. "Remind me never to cross her."

"Clint, don't cross her," Natasha and Steve say in unison, then grin at each other and high five.

Clint rolls his eyes. "Thanks guys. You're helpers. Sooooo helpful."

Natasha stands and joins Clint in the doorway. Steve starts to turn down the hallway toward the exit, but is stopped by Nat's hand on his shoulder.

"I'll be in touch, okay? I'm not kidding, you're a priority around here, and not just with me."

Steve nods. "Thanks. I really appreciate it."

Now he just needs to wait. He glances down at his hand, still clutching the envelope. And go to the bank. Holy shit.

=====

It's enough money that Steve could take several months away from his more mundane clients, but instead he dives into the work as a way to get out of his head while he waits for news from Natasha. It's 26 days, 8 visits to probate court, 11 teary widows, 2 more vet requests, and 0 dream visits from Bucky before he hears from her. 

The lack of dream visits has him a bit panicked, to be honest. He almost gets to the point of asking Dr. Strange for a dream check-up, but he already owes him large for last time. And if something has happened to Bucky and that's why he hasn't visited... Well, Steve's not ready to give up that hope quite yet. So he doesn't ask.

But on day 26 SHIELD comes through, and Natasha and Clint, dressed in their office suits, show up at his door to collect him. 

"Nat! Clint! Is there... is this?"

Nat nods soberly.

"You found him?"

"We did. We'll take you there now." 

There's something that's not being said; Natasha is more melancholy than triumphant and Steve is having a major freak-out inside his head. Clint is parking in SHIELD HQ's garage when Steve finally cracks and asks her.

"Natasha? Is there something wrong with him?" He's realizing just now that he didn't really warn them about Bucky being a hundred-year-old man.

Her mouth forms a grim line. "We have him, but he's not awake." She unbuckles herself and turns to face him. "We're not sure if we're going to be able to wake him, either. The Hydra technology is pretty sketchy, and the technicians running his equipment had been gone for weeks when we recovered it."

Steve nods, dazed. 

"Do you still want to see him?"

"What? Of course I do!"

Natasha tilts her head, considering him, then nods to herself. "All right. Let's do this."

=====

Bucky's in a hospital bed, in a hospital gown, asleep, and he looks so normal that Steve is a bit spun around. He's not sure what he expected. To find him in an ice cube tray? Wearing ice skates? Blue skin and a santa hat? Whatever the cryogenic equipment had done to keep him frozen since, Christ, World War II, SHIELD's medical team had been able to undo without any visible signs. Except for the IV in one arm, he looks just like the vibrant person from Steve's dreams, like he might stir at any moment and reach out for a kiss.

Steve's jaw drops. He looks _exactly_ like the person from his dreams. Whatever else his icy prison had done to him, it hadn't let the years touch him—he's still a young man.

Steve stirs himself from this revelation to find that a woman is talking to him. "Huh? I'm sorry, I got distracted for a minute. What um. What were you saying?"

She gives him a too-patient look and starts over. "I'm Dr. Arendsen. I supervised Mr. Doe's resuscitation. I'm here to answer any questions you may have."

"Barnes. His name is Bucky Barnes."

"Ah. Of course." She makes a note on the chart sitting in a folder on the door. 

"Resuscitation? Does that mean he was dead?"

"No, no, he was very much alive the whole time, just slowed down. It's a bit of a misleading term, I'm sorry. There isn't a lot of medical literature on cryogenic techniques, so the terminology hasn't caught up yet. The techniques involved overlap heavily with reviving a hypothermic patient or a drowning victim, so that's what we've been calling it."

Steve walks over to Bucky, picks up the hand without the IV and cradles it in both of his. "So is he going to wake up?"

Dr. Arendsen clouds over a bit. "I wish I knew. We've done everything we know how to do for him. He's in stable condition, his brain activity looks hopeful, but it's been over 72 hours and no sign of consciousness. It's not just a long normal sleep at this point. We've tried stimulants at standard doses, and his heart speeds up, but no change in responsiveness. I can't try higher doses without risking permanent organ damage."

"I see," says Steve hollowly. 

"I'm so sorry. I wish I had more answers for you. But your friend is a bit of a medical oddity. And unfortunately we haven't been able to recover the details of how he was cared for, which makes everything that much more uncertain."

Cared for, hah. That is not exactly the phrase Steve would use to describe what Hydra did to Bucky.

"Thank you for your time, Doctor," puts in Natasha, when it's clear that Steve has faded out of the conversation.

She takes it for the dismissal it is. "Of course, Agent Romanoff. Agent Barton." She steps out into the hall.

Natasha puts a hand on Steve's shoulder, shaking him loose from his reverie. "Steve. Are you okay?"

Steve chokes out a laugh. "Not really."

Clint's hand settles on his other shoulder. "Hey, you don't have to be. This is some messed up shit."

Steve swipes at his eyes with one hand, the other still brushing softly against Bucky's wrist. "It just feels so wrong, that he was a prisoner for so long, and now that he's free, he can't even... he'll never... I'll never..."

"He could still wake up," says Natasha. "We don't know anything for sure. Dr. Arendsen's team can't find anything keeping him from waking. I don't want to get your hopes up, but there's not no hope either."

Steve huffs out a sigh. "I know. I know. Just. If there's nothing keeping him from..." he trails off, eyes widening. 

"Steve?"

Steve's hand jerks to his neck; he tugs his pendant out from under his sweater and clutches it tightly, closing his eyes.

"Steve? What's..." 

Steve's eyes fly open again, unfocused. Clint and Natasha take a step back, mirrored expressions of confusion and concern on their faces. Steve doesn't notice; he's tranced out, deeper in the spirit realm than in the physical world. Bucky's body is fine, but he's not waking up. Bucky's chains are gone, but he's not... ah. There.

His collar.

Apparently Hydra wasn't content merely to shackle his spirit in the Soldier body; whatever paranoid shaman had set up the whole grim arrangement had gone for some insurance on his personal body too. Why they'd thought that was necessary when the body was literally frozen and locked in a coffin was hard to imagine, but then the whole situation was pretty far out on a limb to begin with. This was not the work of sensible minds.

Steve lets himself flow over and around Bucky. His pendant floats up, spinning gently, and his body slumps backward. Clint catches him and eases him into a visitor's chair while Natasha dashes out to the hall to recall the doctor. Steve stretches his spirit thin, letting it creep gently under the rough edges of the collar, which is glowing a harsh, bright green in his vision. He collects himself for a moment and then PUSHES, hard, outward in all directions from Bucky's throat. The collar cracks, then begins to crumble. A sweet white light replaces the nauseous green, bathing Bucky's body from crown to toe for a long moment, then fades gently to nothing.

Bucky opens his eyes, blinks a few times, then tilts his head over to the side. "Steve."

Steve sits up, tries to stand up and walk to Bucky but is held back by Clint. "Whoah there, slugger, you just fainted on me. Baby steps." Clint hefts Steve's chair over to the bed instead, putting him within Bucky's reach.

"Steve," repeats Bucky. "I knew you'd come."

"Promised, didn't I?" Steve manages, his voice hoarse and wet.

"I'm glad. I'm glad I got to see you one last time."

"One last time? What is he talking about?" Natasha has returned with Dr. Arendsen, who is flittering around Bucky's bed, checking vitals, pulling out a flashlight to shine on his pupils. Bucky, squinting and annoyed, bats it away. 

"You mind, doc? Having a moment here."

"Steve, what does he mean, one last time?" Natasha asks.

"Bucky, you're not old," blurts out Steve.

Bucky frowns. "You said it was 2019."

"It is! But... well, look at yourself."

Bucky looks down at his hands, unconvinced. Dr. Arendsen has set aside her flashlight and produces a tiny compact with a mirror from some hidden pocket of her scrubs. Bucky peers into the mirror and his mouth drops open in wonder as he pats his face with one hand. "What the fuck," he murmurs. "Pardon my language, ma'am."

"STEVE." Natasha waves a hand in front of his face. "What is going on?"

Steve looks sheepish. "Um. Well I'd like you to meet my friend, Bucky Barnes, born in... uh... when were you born, Buck?"

"March 10th, 1917," he answers automatically, still staring in disbelief at the little mirror.

Natasha blinks, then smiles slowly and looks over at Clint. "Fury's gonna have a stroke."


	6. Epilogue: In Which They Finally Get Laid

There are four days of questioning sessions and doctor-mandated rest periods before Bucky sees the sky, but stock in Steve really is sky high at SHIELD apparently, because then he's allowed to take him home. Natasha produces a set of identification documents—with a birthdate in 1987 rather than 1917—and Steve is pretty sure there are agents following them around, but after all the actual evil supervillain nonsense in the last few weeks, he's okay with that. As long as they keep a discreet distance, because Steve? Has plans. Or has hopes, anyway. 

"So... this is home," he announces nervously. He'd been sublimating his anxiety in to a cleaning spree over the last few days waiting for Bucky to be allowed out, but now he immediately spots places he missed: the ceiling fan. The windows have fingerprints. The laundry basket is just sitting there, a glaring clue that Steve is a human who wears clothes that get dirty ever. Whoah, okay, deep breath, Rogers.

Bucky, eyes wide, spins around, taking it in. "God, it's huge."

Steve laughs. "Okay, that's a new one on me." It's a one bedroom, technically, but there are storage lockers bigger than this place.

Bucky produces a wry grin. "I grew up in the depression. I had a place this size, once, but I was sharing with 5 other guys."

Steve reddens. "Oh! Oh. Right. Um. I'm sorry, I—"

Bucky puts a reassuring hand on Steve's shoulder. "Hey, you're fine. You have a beautiful home."

Steve's blush intensifies, but it feels pleasant instead of awkward now. "Thanks. So. Um. I don't have a guest bedroom, obviously, and I mean if you want there's the couch, but I was sort of hoping—but I don't want to make it sound like you have to—that is—"

Bucky traces a finger over Steve's lips; Steve gratefully lets his words peter out. "You suggesting we sleep together, sugar?"

"I... yeah." Steve is distracted chasing after Bucky's finger with his lips. 

"Why, Steven! We're not even married." teases Bucky.

"Oh! Do you wanna?"

Bucky's teasing breaks down in the face of Steve's earnest tone. He blinks. "What?"

"Oh my god did I just propose on the first date. Wait. Third date? Do dreams count? Do grisly murder scenes count?"

"Pal, hanged if I know. You lost me a few turns back." Bucky strokes Steve's cheek fondly. "Serves me right for teasing you. I'd love to bunk in with you. And I really don't suppose a couple of queers can get any more damned for not getting hitched first."

Steve closes his eyes and leans in to Bucky's hand. "We could split the difference, sleep together and then get married?"

"Steve. Sweetheart. I'm a man."

Steve looks him up and down. "Mmm hmm. And a very nice one, too—oh!" He laughs. "Oh Buck, that's not a problem anymore. Well I mean maybe if you want a traditional catholic wedding. But two gents can tie the knot at city hall for sure."

Bucky's face locks up for a moment, considering this. "Huh, no foolin'?" he manages at last. "Well that's... that's real hospitable."

Steve "Aaaaaand I proposed on the first date to a guy who was joking about the whole idea because what is even time and oh my god we barely just met and I'm so sorry I just—you're just—" Steve swallows. "You make me want to promise things."

Bucky's eyes are getting suspiciously shiny; he takes Steve's face in both hands. "I have this whole big life ahead of me, thanks to you. You make me a promise and I'll promise it right back, honey."

Steve looks Bucky in the eye and solemnly says "Bucky, I promise to take my pants off and smooch the hell out of you."

Bucky cracks up. "Steve. Oh my god." Steve grins. "I promise—" Bucky is trying and failing to get through the sentence without giggling. "I promise that too, baby." 

Steve grins and strides off to the bedroom. "Last one there's a hundred year old cradle-robber!"

Bucky catches up to him and scoops him up in his arms. "I'm hurt. It sounds so creepy when you put it that way."

"Aw, honey, I'm a medium. Creepy pays my rent."

"Hmm. Good point." Bucky tosses Steve on to the bed. Steve had not realized until this moment how much he likes being tossed around. Usually his small stature is a sore point, but apparently it has some unforeseen perks. Steve shakes out of his happy haze and catches up: Bucky is shirtless and quickly on his way to being naked. Steve scrambles to do the same. He has a promise to keep. A ridiculous, awesome promise.

He gets as far as taking his shirt off when Bucky stops him with a gentle hand, reaching out to touch his pendant with a wondering look. His free hand brushes along his own left arm, over the spot where the star gem had been on his avatar's metal arm. 

"Buck? You okay?"

"Just... remembering." He takes Steve's face in both his hands. "Thank you," he says softly. "For everything." He leans in for a soft kiss, then a second, then kisses the tip of Steve's nose, making him giggle. Bucky grins and pushes him back. "So smooching, check. But I seem to remember something about your pants?"

Steve scrambles out of his slacks, getting his ankle fouled in his boxers in his excitement. Bucky extracts him without laughing. Quite. It's clearly a struggle. Steve scowls and sticks out his tongue and changes the subject by kissing him some more. Solemnity and amusement both give way to passion in Bucky's face; he catches Steve up in his arms and rolls over, lying back with Steve straddling his chest. Steve leans back, takes his necklace and hearing aid off and sets them carefully on the bedside table. "Hey, just so you know, I can only hear you on the right now." He taps his ear. "But um. I learned the hard way that lube and my hearing aid don't mix very well, so." 

Bucky nuzzles affectionately at Steve's belly, then looks up. "I'll speak up, sweetheart. But your aid doesn't mix well with what?"

"Uh... lube?"

"You gonna fix a car? Right now?"

Steve flicks Bucky on the chin. "Smart-ass. I mean people lube. For uh. For sex? I mean," he adds hastily. "I don't want to assume, we don't have to have—I just—with the pants, and—"

Bucky "Oh! Like Vaseline?"

Steve's eyes light up. "Vaseline! Oh man, have I got some future technology for you. Uh. That is, if you..."

Bucky grins. "Oh I do. Wholeheartedly. 110%. Cross my heart."

Steve smiles, relieved, and reaches over to the side table's drawer to pull out a bottle. "Behold, the Vaseline of the FUTURE-URE-URE!" He makes a fake echoey sound, brandishing the bottle of lube with Vanna White hands. Bucky looks at him flatly. "Aw, c'mon, you know it's funny." Bucky holds out for maybe fifteen more seconds before cracking up. 

"Okay it's a little funny. Come on them, take me to THE FUTURE, baby."

Steve tucks forward to press a sweet kiss to Bucky's lips. "You got it." He shuffles down a bit and presses their cocks together, taking a nipple in his mouth as he does so. 

"Nngnnggh!" articulates Bucky.

"Mmmhmm," explains Steve, licking the nipple in his mouth before switching to the other. 

Bucky groans and reaches up to knead at Steve's ass. Steve can feel him growing harder beneath him and moans in return. He sits up briefly, takes Bucky's hand, and squirts some lube on to a finger, then guides it back to his entrance. "Can you..." 

"Can I..." teases Bucky, but his finger is already circling Steve's hole, then gently pressing in.

"Nevermind, clearly you can. Carry on. Go forth. Follow your dreams. Strike while the iron is... unnnnnh." Steve arches back into the feeling as Bucky adds a second finger, and returns to suckling at Bucky's nipples to stop himself from babbling. 

Not that Bucky seems to mind it. "You make the nicest sounds, baby doll," he says softly, into Steve's right ear so he can hear it. Steve melts a bit closer in to Bucky's chest and rubs his temple fondly against him like a happy cat at this detail. He's a sucker for a fast learner.

Speaking of which. Bucky applies a bit more lube, cool against Steve's hot skin, and then there's a third finger pressing into him. It's a lot, he's so full, but he wants more. He grinds against Bucky and mewls into his chest as he feels Bucky's cock twitch against his, pre-come starting to drip down from his tip, the moisture making the sensation that much more intense. 

"Bucky. I want." Bucky's gentle fingers have found his prostate, and full sentences are just not happening any more. "Oh, oh, oh. Bucky."

"What do you want, honey?" Bucky has on a shit-eating grin, and he strokes, hard, just as Steve opens his mouth to try to ask again, then does it again, and finally Steve bites his nipple in retaliation. 

"AHEM. I want... I want. Unh. BUCKY."

Bucky slips his fingers out, faux-repentant, and laces them together over his chest, giving Steve an innocent look. "Sorry! I'm listening."

Steve twitches a bit, oversensitive, as Bucky's fingers leave him. "Fuck. Bucky. I want you inside me."

"Mmm, sugar, I was hoping you'd ask." Bucky flips them over, stroking Steve's cock idly with one hand while the other fumbles with the lube bottle and coats his own member. Steve covers his eyes with a forearm; everything feels so intense, even the soft light drifting in from the next room feels like too much to take in right now. Bucky tugs one of his legs up by the knee and lines himself up, then presses in, slowly and steadily, and they both gasp as he sinks in. 

"Oh hell, you weren't kidding. This is a step UP from Vaseline."

Steve giggles, peeking out from under his arm. "Told ya. THE FUTURE!" 

Bucky snorts, then pulls back and thrusts. 

"Oh!"

The future is GREAT. Steve would just like that noted for the record. "Nnnngh," he says. Well, close enough. Bucky smiles down at him, face soft and fond as he works up a steady rhythm. "Yeah. Me too, sweetheart."

Bucky nuzzles in close and keeps up a steady stream of sweet nonsense in Steve's ear. It turns out he's a total sap and Steve is HERE for it. The litany of 30s nicknames gets sillier and sillier—sugar-pie, angel, dollface, muffin, peach, snuggle puppy... sweet patootie? hotsy-totsy? _sheik_? Steve startles at— "Bawcock? What in God's name is a bawcock?"

Bucky, face red, eyes screwed shut in concentration, carries on thrusting in to Steve as he answers. "Shakespeare. Unh. Don't they. Teach that. Unhh. In school anymore." 

Steve keens as Bucky takes his cock in hand, commentary on modern education set aside for the moment. "Ohh, Buck. I'm. I'm so."

"Yeah?" Bucky pants. "You gonna come for me, sweet thing?"

"Unh... I..."

"Shhh, attaboy, I got you." 

And Steve is coming over Bucky's hand. He bites his lip and curls forward, caught up in the feeling of Bucky's hand on him, of Bucky's cock inside him, of, of of. Bucky keeps his hand carefully gentle on Steve's cock but his legs tense up, gripping Steve firmly as Steve's passage tightening around his cock pushes him to his completion too. His head drops down to meet Steve's, sweaty brow on sweaty brow, breathing roughly in to each other's mouths. Bucky brushes Steve's hair back and kisses his forehead, then his lips, and then frowns, looking over at—

Steve's pendant has risen into the air and spins lazily for a moment longer, then drops to the bedside table with a loud THUNK.

Bucky looks at the pendant.

Steve looks at the pendant.

"Well that's—"

"Does that always—"

"No, that's a first."

Bucky pulls out of Steve gently, arranges himself with Steve tucked in to his side. "Sweetheart, I'm getting you a jewelry box, that thing's a menace."

Steve smiles sleepily in to Bucky's armpit. "Probably a good idea."

"Mmmhmm." Bucky kisses his hair. 

"Seriously, though, bawcock?"

Bucky huffs. "It's a word!"

"Sure it is, lumbersnack."

"Wait, is that a..."

"Nope, that one's straight-up mockery."

Bucky blows a raspberry on Steve's scalp. "It is, though! It's..." Bucky blushes. "In one of the Henry plays, he disguises himself and one of his friends is complimenting the king, not knowing it's really him, and says he has a heart of gold an' he's a bawcock and. It stuck with me, is all. As something you might say, to your favourite fellow."

Steve reaches over for Bucky's hand, draws it close, and kisses it. "Aw, honey, I'm sorry I made fun. That's the sweetest thing I ever heard."

Bucky smiles shyly.

"...the sweetest thing I've ever heard that has cock in it, anyway," amends Steve.

Bucky pokes him in the side. " _You're_ the sweetest thing with a cock inside."

"Well not anymore."

Bucky waggles his eyebrows.

Steve laughs. "Later! 'm tired. You wore me out."

"Arright, arright, I s'pose we've got time."

Steve squeezes his hand, snuggling closer. 

"Yeah. Yeah we do."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter,](https://twitter.com/yamtimesthree) yellin' about Bucky usually.


End file.
